


Worlds' End

by PoppyAlexander



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005), The Sandman
Genre: Crossover, Harm to Children, Ninth Doctor Era, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-19
Updated: 2012-09-19
Packaged: 2017-11-14 13:54:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/515915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor ended the Time War--destroyed his homeworld and his people to save the universe. But in the last days of Gallifrey, something even more precious was lost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worlds' End

**Author's Note:**

> You need not be a fan of Neil Gaiman's comic book epic "The Sandman" (though I recommend it!) to enjoy this story; it is a Doctor Who story.
> 
> The title is borrowed with all apologies to Neil Gaiman. (And now, "all apologies" to Kurt Cobain as well, I suppose.)
> 
> This story takes place before S1E1, "Rose," but I have taken the liberty of having Nine end the Time War, despite the fact that in S1E1 he appears to be newly regenerated (checking out his new ears in the mirror in Rose's living room), indicating it would have been Eight who did so.
> 
> Warning to parents and other sensitive folks: this story contains descriptions of children in peril, though there is no graphic violence.

The little girl was barefoot, wearing a white ruffled dress that seemed at once too big and too small for her, unbuttoned at the back, sometimes slipping down to reveal one bony shoulder or the other, and lacy bloomers that grazed her skinned knees. Her hair was mad—orange, part shaved close to reveal her tiny ear pierced with rather more rings than were appropriate for a child who looked to be no more than eight or nine. Her eyes were poorly matched—one ice blue, one pond green—and though most often her gaze was unfocused and easily distracted, at the moment it was intensely trained upon the man on the ground.

The man on the ground had old wounds on his face and arms, a fresher one on his lip that had recently been bleeding. His clothes were of drab colour but strident shape—a uniform of some kind, but undecorated, dull. His hair was cropped close to his head and although he was quite unconscious, the features of his face—prominent brow, long narrow nose, square chin—seemed taut with tension. He lay on his side, arms at odd angles. The top half of him lay on the dry, mossy ground; his lower half vanished into the open door of a tall, blue, wooden phonebox.

The little girl walked around him, her toes stretching to find each next step. As she moved closer to the box, she quietly sing-songed, “Po-leese box. . .Po-leese boooxxx. . .”

She stood next to the man’s chest and looked down into his face. “Are you the police, then? Polices have uniforms not like your one.”

She glanced through the open door and saw a massive space, with walls and posts that resembled sea creatures. There was a console in the center of the room, with a central glass chimney giving off a gentle green-blue glow and a low hum.

“Oh, it’s a driving thingy,” the little girl said, completely unimpressed that the interior of the box appeared to be many times bigger than it ought to have been, given the size of its exterior.

The girl became momentarily distracted by several metallic, blue butterflies that seemed to emerge from her tangled mass of ginger hair. They flittered around her head and she began a gentle spin, following them in their flight. Her tiny foot landed on the man’s gently curled fingers; he let out a sound that was part grunt and part moan, and reflexively pulled his arm in toward his body.

“Oops!” she exclaimed rather loudly, jumping back. “I mean—beg your pardon.” She’d been scolded before that disturbing someone required more than just an “Oops,” though she wasn’t sure why, as Oops seemed to say all that she felt about it. Her foot crept forward along the mossy ground and she brushed the man’s elbow with her toes. When this brought no response, the toes gave a nudge. Then just a little kick, not to hurt him or anything.

“Wake up, Police,” she singsonged.

The man groaned, then gasped in a gulp of air as if he were drowning. His eyes flew open and he lifted himself up onto the palms of his hands momentarily, furious panic wracking his features as he quickly surveyed his surroundings. His gaze fell on the little girl with her wild hair and ill-fitting dress, and enough of the panic and fury ebbed from him that he slumped down again, to his elbows.

“You’re weak,” the little girl observed. “Cut up, too.” She stooped down, bent herself into a cross-legged seat  beside the man on the ground. She shooed away the butterflies with one hand and they retreated to the leafless branch of a nearby tree. The little girl guided the man’s head onto her lap and stroked his close-shorn hair. “Something bad happened.”

Tears sprang to the man’s eyes and a choking sound rattled in his throat.

The little girl caressed his cheek with her fingertips, patted his shoulder.

“Very bad,” she said solemnly. Then, questioning: “You ran away?”

The man on the ground tensed suddenly, rose to sit, swiped the back of his hand across his teary eyes. The trails of the tears left clean streaks on his grimy face.

The little girl just looked at him.

“I need. . .” the man began, his voice scraping through a dry throat. He swallowed. “I need to find the Elegian.”

The little girl blinked.

The man seemed to gather all his strength but managed only to reach a sitting position, his back against the doorframe of the wooden box. He rolled his head a bit, stretching his neck, then closed his eyes for much longer than a blink.

“The Elegian is here. Or was. At least, my ship thinks so.” The man turned his ice-blue eyes on the girl, who was now making a rather sloppy daisy chain and humming quietly. “I’m the Doctor, by the way. And exactly where am I?” he inquired.

The little girl looked up at him, as if noticing him for the first time. She grinned.

“Your accent sounds a bit Tincherly,” she ventured. Then her face lit up. “Oh!”—she held up a finger--“Skelvish!”

“I’m a Time Lord. From a planet called Gal—“

“Lots of planets have a Skelves!” she cut him off, pouting.

“Well, if Gallifrey had them, I never had the pleasure of a visit,” the Doctor replied, tight-lipped. “Where are your parents?”

The little girl scrunched her lips and her eyes darted this and way that, a caricature of hard thinking. At last, she shrugged.

“Who takes care of you?” he asked.

“Who takes care of _you_?” she replied, pointing hard at him.

The Doctor grimaced and let out a surprised-sounding breath, but managed to get to his feet. He pulled the door of the police box shut and, with a small key from his trousers pocket, locked it.

“You’re looking for Elysium?” the little girl asked. The clutch of butterflies swooped off their branch and began once more to circle her head.

“The Elegian,” the Doctor corrected. “Do you know—“

“No Uhlee-ma-whatsis here,” the little girl said. “You’re here, though. You ran away from something bad that happened.” She swatted half-heartedly at the meandering butterflies, stood, and walked toward him. She turned her face up toward his.

“Very bad thing.”

The Doctor pressed his hands against the sides of his head, his eyes screwed shut. “Where am I, please,” he said quietly, but not kindly.

The girl took a step away from him and did a little twirling dance that made her skirt float out around her. “This is my realm,” she said.

The Doctor’s eyes remained closed and his voice was monotone. “And you are,” he said.

“I used to be dee, dee, Delight. Now I am dee, dee, Delirium. And you are in my realm. The realm of Delirium.” She continued her childish jig as she spoke, and her breezy singsong did not suit the content of her speech. “The very bad thing you ran away from!” she sang, “Your mind ran away from it, too!”

She began to skip in a wobbly non-pattern, and in the shadow of every step she took, a clockwork flower sprang up.

The Doctor’s arms went around himself then, just for a second, before he strode to the little girl and grabbed her rather hard by her upper arm. She did not respond except to look at him seriously and say, “You’ve gone mad, Mr. Police Doctor. But don’t worry; you can stay as long as you need to.” She glanced over her shoulder. The Doctor’s gaze followed hers and he loosened his grip on her arm.

Where they stood was green and pleasant, a meadow of sorts. Ahead of them lay a pastoral scene of plants and trees, gently sloping upward into lush hillsides veiled over with sunlight. Here and there things looked a bit askew—the clockwork flowers, an ostrich-like bird flying by trailing a banner  that read, 0010111010101, a cute little Wendy-house turned exactly on its side. Far off to their left, the sky was a most remarkable shade of red, and far to their right, the Doctor saw the skyline of a city made of copper and soap bubbles.

But behind them, over the little girl’s shoulder, was a roiling, lava-like cloud that filled the sky edge to edge. It smelled of cinders and rot, and the wind that blew off it was tinged with dread. It seemed to be getting closer.

“That’s yours, as well,” the little girl said with a shrug. Then, singing:  “Dee Dee Doctor in my Ree Ree Realm!”

The Doctor shivered, regained himself, daren’t take his eyes off the approaching dysphoric storm, turned away from it but kept it in view. His voice was urgent and desperate.

“The Elegian!” he demanded, “I’ve come to find the Elegian.”

“You think that’s why you’ve come,” she corrected, “But you’ve come to get away from the Very Bad Thing and now you’re here—away--but I think the Very Bad Thing is following you, because--” she indicated behind them with a jerking thumb. “And anyway the person you’re saying. . .”

The Doctor bit his lip, his eyes narrowed.

“Is not here.”

“You’re sure?”

The little girl stage-whispered, her hand beside her mouth as if speaking privately to the Doctor, though there was no one else nearby to keep secrets from, save for the ostrich-like bird flying back and forth above them with its banner flapping behind it.

“The Elegium,” she rasped, “Is that who did the Very Bad Thing to you?”

The Doctor pressed his palm to his forehead, dragged it down over his eyes, his chin, his throat. His fist clenched in front of his chest.

“The Elegian,” he spat, barely-controlled rage sharpening his tone. “The Elegian--” he repeated.

His voice broke on a sob. He wailed.

****                     ****                     ****                     ****                     ****

His daughter’s name was a beautiful bit of script, a glyph which expressed a melancholy longing that went on for years, and tangled up with it, an ecstatic burst of sudden, perfect joy. She was long-fingered and had a sort of wild elegance, with gleaming blonde hair that curled down the back of her neck. Only lately she had learned to write her name; the circles were impressively concise and sturdy for a child so young, though she finished with a flourish that changed the meaning utterly (she said it looked nicer her way). Her scientific mind impressed him, though now and again he caught a glimpse of her mother’s far-away, melancholic expression on her small face. They’d called the little girl Longing-for-Love, after his favourite flower.

The twins’ names were similarly charming to see etched or written, as they created a visual pun when placed side-by-side, the two glyphs perfectly identical but for a solitary dot one had, which the other lacked. This subtle and minute difference, though, reflected how the most minor change could alter an outcome radically. The twin glyphs were Best Case Scenario and Worst Case Scenario. The boys were called Exquisite-Perfection and Perfect-Disaster. They toddled around like stiff-legged scarecrows, frequently sitting hard on their bottoms as they not yet mastered walking, though both pairs of eyes burned with determination nearly all the time. They babbled gaily to each other in some magical twin-speak; he often tried to discern the patterns as he listened to their gibberish conversation. He bounced them wildly on his knees, nearly letting go, just so they got the thrill of careening for a moment, unsure, and they screamed with joy when he caught them again.

His wife had a brilliant mind and an elegant, angular face. Her words were full of poetry but she had a quick wit and never spared a jibe at his expense, though these were accompanied by a wink—she actually winked—and a smile at once sweet and sultry. When they’d met he was bewitched as soon as she’d spoken half a sentence, utterly undone, and he’d made rather a fool of himself in those early days, courting her clumsily but in earnest. To him she was exotic and inscrutable—while he tinkered with machines, she filled page after page with delicate calligraphy, evoking beauty, tragedy, and truth with the strokes of her pen.

On the day they were married, they learned each other’s true names, and the way she had closed her eyes, bowed her head reverently once he’d murmured his name to her, was a picture he carried in his mind’s eye ever after. She’d whispered her name against his ear and the moment felt more intimate than even their lovemaking. His bride--in her robes the deep violet-blue of the distant sky at night, her eyes rimmed in shimmering black—was the most gorgeous creature he had ever laid eyes on. She had laughed at the way he poured the wine, his hands shaking, and she rested her palm over his wrist to steady him.

She was brilliant; she gleamed. She was bright as a star. She laughed in loud, round hiccoughs. She danced the children around the room. She grabbed the sides of his head and gave him theatrical kisses—MMMMMWAH!—and called him My Hero. She was the most magical thing he had ever encountered. He worshiped her.

****                     ****                     ****                     ****                     ****

The Doctor was on his knees, doubled over with his arms wrapped around himself, weeping. He rocked his head back and forth, no, no, no. . .

The little girl patted his shoulder with her tiny hand, pat pat pat.

“Very bad thing,” she said quietly, wistfully, casting a glance at the ever-expanding swirl of black cloud in the sky.

The Doctor did not acknowledge her.

The little girl walked to the sideways Wendy house and reached through a window to open the door from the inside. It fell open with a thump, rocked once, then settled. She climbed through it. After a few minutes, she emerged holding what looked like a gas mask married with a centipede, but which was actually a dark metallic helmet. She cleared her throat noisily, as if trying to sound important.

“Um,” she began, hugging the object to her chest and looking nowhere in particular.

“Um,” she repeated. “I’m calling you, Brother. I have your. . .thingy. . .for calling you to my realm. So. . .” she scrunched her mouth, “Will you come?”

Turning toward the Wendy house, she dropped the helmet through the door, which she did not bother to close.  When she turned around again, she did not startle though an enormously tall, whip-thin man had suddenly appeared beside her. He had a tangle of black hair and was dressed in slim black trousers and a long sweater, also black. The little girl grinned.

“Hello, Brother. Have you brought me a present?”

The thin man clasped his hands behind him. He exhaled impatiently. “I’m sorry to say I have not. I wasn’t expecting to see you today.” His voice was like wind and waterfalls.

The little girl shrugged. “This police doctor has come looking for his friend—no, not his friend—a person who hurt him.” She motioned toward the Doctor, who still knelt on the ground but who seemed to have steeled himself against his rush of grief. His eyes were red but his jaw was set. “A person who did a very bad thing to him.”

The thin man raised an eyebrow as he studied the Doctor.

“His not-a-friend isn’t here, though. BUT!”  The little girl shook her fists excitedly as she spoke. “I have a wonderful idea because of this police doctor!”

“I’m not a policeman,” the Doctor protested, barely controlling the anger in his voice. “I’m a Time Lord. I’m the Doctor. I’ve come looking for the Elegian but if—“

Upon hearing this, the thin man took a step toward the Doctor. “A Time Lord, you say?” he asked.

The Doctor returned the thin man’s studying look. He nodded. “You know something of the Time Lords?”

The little girl leapt between them, jigging about, trying to maintain the thin man’s attention. “This not-police doctor made me think something! An idea!” She pointed repeatedly at the Doctor as she continued. “He is very old, you see. And we are very old. He is less very old, but much older than some others. And since our brother went away—“

“Sister,” the thin man said, patiently, calmly. She ignored him.

“—This doctor might could go into our brother’s realm and it could be the Doctor Realm. Because of he is very old—“

“Yes, so you said,” the thin man interrupted, resting his long-fingered, pale hand on her shoulder as if to settle her.

The Doctor interjected, “How do you know I’m very old?”

“I know lots of things! —and because of he is the dee, dee, Doctor! Dee, dee, Dream, do you see? This Doctor has a dee, just like you and I have a dee. And our sisters and brothers have a dee. And he is very old and he is sad and lonely, I think, on account of what his not-a-friend did. He could go in our brother’s realm and he could. . .”

She had lost a lot her steam.

“. . .help.”

She shrugged.

“That is my idea.”

She sniffed.

“You’re welcome.”

The Doctor addressed the thin man. “You say you know the Time Lords—where is the Elegian?”

“I’m afraid that is something I do not know,” the thin man replied. “All I know of the Time Lords is that I cannot know them. I am Dream of the Endless.” He gestured toward the little girl, who was now rolling down a grassy hill, giggling. “You’ve met my sister, the Lady Delirium.”

The Doctor rose to his feet, cast a nervous glance at the cloud radiating dread at them. Was it closer?

“Am I. . .?” the Doctor murmured, looking around at the changing, never-quite-right scenery. “That means-- Have I gone mad?”

The thin man—The King of Dreams--rocked back on his heels, surveyed the huge black stormcloud. “You are bereaved, Lord Doctor?” he asked.

The Doctor nodded.

“Mad with grief,” Dream said in his satiny voice. “It’s quite common, and not always permanent.” Another studious look at the bleak cloud. “Yours appears quite contained, actually.”

A small wrought-metal table and two chairs had appeared near the Dream King, and he gestured toward them. “May I offer you a seat, Lord Doctor?”

The Doctor accepted the offer wordlessly, sinking heavily into the chair.

“I don’t understand this,” he muttered, pressing the heels of his hands against his closed eyes. “My TARDIS brought me here. Surely the Elegian was mad—“

The King of Dreams had taken the other seat, and his long legs stretched lazily beneath the table as he leaned back, his hands clasped behind his head full of tangled black hair.

“Although my sister is a bit silly and prone to flights of fancy, I assure you that if she says the one you seek is not here, she is telling the truth. She knows who belongs to her realm.” The Dream King narrowed his black eyes, which shimmered with starlight. “You Time Lords are one of those few races in the Universe of which I have little knowledge.”

“We don’t dream,” the Doctor said. “I don’t dream.”

“Some would count you fortunate,” Dream replied, “Others would consider it a tragedy.”

The Doctor shrugged slightly.

Dream said, “I am not sure where I come down on that argument, myself.” He shifted, crossing his arms across his chest. “The Elegian is also from your planet of Gallifrey, I assume.”

“Yes.” He seemed about to say more, but to think better of it.

The little girl, Delirium, ran up suddenly and dumped an armload of tiny, red-petaled flowers on the tabletop before the Doctor, who let out a dismayed “Ah!”

“I’m sorry about what happened,” Delirium said. “I hope you find the Alyssum.” She lay her small hand in the middle of his chest. “But you will probably not feel better when you do,” she intoned. “You should be ready to not feel better.”

She turned to the Dream King and said, “It’s very bad what this Elysium did to this dee, dee Doctor.  I wonder if we should call for our sister? She might know where to find. . .them.”

The Doctor held a handful of the tiny blossoms to his face, inhaled deeply. His eyes were wet. He passed one flower to the Dream King. “It’s a Longing-for-Love,” he said. “They grew wild on Gallifrey. We called my daughter after this flower.”

The Dream King nodded, tucked the flower behind Delirium’s ear.

“Call our sister,” he told her.

Delirium ran back toward the sideways Wendy house and clambered in the door. Dream turned back to the Doctor.

“Your planet, Gallifrey,” he ventured. “There was a war?”

The Doctor sighed out a gust that seemed to deflate him utterly. He did not lift his gaze.

“Yes,” he replied. He drew another deep breath, then to his surprise, the whole awful story began to tumble out.

****                     ****                     ****                     ****                     ****

At first, the war seemed far away. They had not worried terribly. Sad of course.  The first topic of every conversation. Will the men be conscripted? Will the diplomats make progress in cease-fire discussions? Would the enemy be appeased by wealth or would part of Gallifrey be colonized? Surely not. The elders will work it out. No need to lose sleep. Your daughter’s growing like a weed! How old are you now, sweet dear? Studying hard? Good girl.

But within a few months the sky was full of them, just hovering there, a constant threat. Capital cities were falling, burning, one after the next. The elders’ eyes were full of panic even as their voices steadily intoned that an agreement would soon be reached. The Doctor decided to send his wife and the children to her father’s farm in the foothills of the Red Mountains. He would stay at the university, where he and his colleagues were being consulted about an attempt to manipulate some facet of time in order to sabotage the enemy’s vessels or weapons.

By now his wife--once so quick to laugh or sing--had become prone to lingering spells of melancholy, and her eyes would darken, her voice sharpen, her words honed to a cutting edge. She would withdraw to her study, curled up on a lounge with a blank book and a pen which she worried with the edges of her teeth, but which she rarely touched to the page. Sometimes she listened to old, sad music; sometimes she locked the door and the Doctor would hear her weeping as he stood on the other side. He knew better than to knock.

They’d argued fiercely when he’d first suggested she take the children to her father’s farm; she didn’t want the family separated, when the threat of destruction was hovering—literally--in the clouds above their home. He insisted; he wanted them safe. Every day brought new rumours of traitors among their people, Gallifreyans giving up their neighbors to the enemy in hopes of being spared. Hundreds—maybe thousands--more had seen their chance to make their fortune, perhaps survive and thrive in the new world of a defeated Gallifrey, dropped their  titles and were now called “The Traitor,” or “The Mercernary.” No one could be trusted, and the farther from the city his family were, the safer they’d be. The Doctor promised that as soon as the elders released him from his consultancy—any day now, surely; he had nothing to report, but that sabotage was impossible—he would join them in the country, and they would wait out the war until the end.

The next morning he packed them off with cases full of clothes, toys for the children, a pantry full of provisions.

“Wait for me,” he told her, out of earshot of the children, his voice full of intensity. “No matter what happens, you stay there and you wait. I will come as soon as I can, I promise.”

Her eyes brimmed with tears; she held his hand so tightly both their fingertips were white.

“Just wait for me,” he repeated, “That’s all you have to do.” He grinned at her, his most charming smile.

She sobbed, cleared her throat, quickly wiped her eyes before the children saw her crying.

“My hero,” she whispered.

He kissed her  hard, urgently, and still she would not let go of his hand.

As they disappeared down the lane, he’d cast a glance upward at the sky full of enemy vessels—silent, ominous—and steeled himself for what he knew must be done.

****                     ****                     ****                     ****                     ****

The Dream King, looking thoughtful and not unkind, listened to the Doctor’s tale with obvious interest, if not actual compassion.

The Doctor exhaled sharply and hung his head.

“Ruins.” His voice was monotone. “Nothing left. No one.”

“You did what you had to do, Lord Doctor,” Dream said, matter-of-factly.

The Doctor looked up, pleading in his eyes. “Was it the right thing? It can’t be. Because--who am I?” He leapt from his chair and began to pace. “A scientist. Not even a scientist. A tinkerer! A teacher—and barely that.” He turned his face skyward. “Why was it _my_ decision? I’m _nobody_.”

His shoulders slumped.

The Dream King merely watched him, now toying with a few of the longing-for-love blossoms on the table, plucking off their tiny petals and letting them flutter to the tabletop. The little girl, Delirium, skipped and jittered across the now-orange grass and stood beside her brother, her hands clasped behind her, rocking on her heels.

“Our sister agrees with me about the dee, dee, Doctor,” she announced. “I don’t think our brother will mind if we let the dee, dee, Doctor live in his realm ‘til he gets back. If he does. Get back.”

Dream raised an eyebrow but held his tongue.

“Weeeelllll. . .” Delirium began, shifting her weight even faster than before. “She didn’t say she agrees officially. But she didn’t say, ‘no,’ either.”

Dream draped a chain of longing-for-loves around Delirium’s neck.

“I still think he could be one of us,” she said with a shrug. She shook her head and another flock of blue butterflies shimmied out of it like a soft explosion. She ran after them, away through the field of orange grass, and disappeared around the corner of the Chrysler Building.

From the corner of his eye, the Doctor caught sight of a young woman pale as ash, dressed similarly to the Dream King, in slim black jeans and a black t-shirt. Her hair was also a tangled mass of inky black, though longer than Dream’s, brushing her collarbones. A large silver ankh hung on a chain around her neck. Her mouth was small and drew up at the corners in a slight, tender smile. Her face was very kind.

“I understand you’re looking for the Elegian,” she said, by way of a non-greeting. She stopped beside her brother the Dream King long enough to muss his hair playfully, then plant a kiss on top of his head. “Hello, Brother Dear,” she enthused, grinning. Dream swatted her away, but gently. The young woman climbed on top of the little table between the Doctor and Dream, one leg drawn up under her.

Unsure of how he knew, the Doctor recognized the woman instantly. She was Death.

“My family—“ he pleaded. He wanted to ask her if she knew where they were, but of course she did. He wasn’t sure he’d like the answer to that particular question but couldn’t think of a better one.

She only nodded slightly, a look of compassion on her face. She covered her heart with both hands, one on top of the other. “It’s difficult for you,” she said gently. “I know it is. After everything you did—ending the Time War.”

The Doctor almost didn’t ask, but then couldn’t help himself. His eyes were wide, his voice whispery and tight. “Can I see them?”

****                     ****                     ****                     ****                     ****

It was a wrenching decision, but in the end the Doctor knew he had no other choice. Better minds than his had been working on this idea of the Elders’ that some kind of time-sabotage would save Gallifrey, but nothing had come of it. He’d worked at the problem for weeks, now dressed in his military uniform (he and his university colleagues had all been conscripted; he was assigned a young pup as an assistant who called him, “Sir, yes, sir!” even after being told to call him the Doctor countless times), working late into every night, awake with the dawn, having meetings and conferences and running experiments and juggling numbers into endless combinations. With every passing day, though, it became clearer that the Time Lords were being overrun. City after city burned as the Dalek vessels hovering in the sky hummed to life and their awful, metallic voices shrieked about domination and extermination. Soon the Time Lords would all be dead, the planet destroyed or colonized, and the Daleks unleashed on the whole of the universe.

It came to him one sleepless night near the end, how he could contain the Time War and save countless lives in countless worlds from the Dalek menace. It was so simple, really. He couldn’t have been the only one to think of it; it was obvious. But it was also gruesome, blatantly criminal, and so. . . _wrong_. . .he daren’t share it, or ask why no one had proposed it. Surely he’d be arrested for treason, crimes against his people. . .

But if he could escape with his wife and children—maybe a few other souls bunkered down in the foothills of the Red Mountains, if he could find anyone willing to go with them—save his family, save the universe. . .the Time Lords would go on, even if Gallifrey burned. And he knew it would. But the Daleks would burn, too, and the Doctor discovered he couldn’t feel sorry for it.

There was a rickety TARDIS—ancient, partly unreliable, but serviceable—in the university’s storage facilities, part of an archive, a donation by a well-meaning benefactor that no one knew what to do with. The Doctor could set his plan in motion and finish it with a Time Lock, allowing himself just enough time to liberate the dusty TARDIS from the catacombs beneath the library. He could fetch his family, and escape in time. He would tell no one of his plan before he began it. The only one accountable—the only one to blame—would be himself alone.

Shortly after dawn one morning, there was a Top Secret meeting: the Philosopher; a representative of the War Council; several of the Doctor’s colleagues; the General; the Scribe. It came to nothing. Hope was lost. They shook hands, tight-lipped, gazes full of meaning, and went their separate ways. The Doctor shut himself in his cluttered office and spent most of the day reviewing his plan, checking and re-checking the maths, still hoping he might discover an alternative. By late afternoon, there was nothing left but to set the plan in motion, and by evening, there was no going back.

Rushing from the Primitive Sciences building, he’d gazed skyward, thinking to ask forgiveness. The air was thick with enemy vessels. Quickly, the Doctor realized forgiveness was irrelevant. Soon it would be over. He and his family would survive.

It had taken him over an hour to get the TARDIS up and running, but then suddenly, with a great wheezing moan and shudder, the old girl was off.

In only moments, it had landed, quieted down to a low hum, and was still. The Doctor checked readings, satisfied he had successfully commandeered the ship and arrived as planned at his wife’s family farm several hours earlier on the same day. Yanking open the TARDIS doors, he was relieved to see that it did indeed appear to be late morning. The sky here was just as clotted with the ominous, levitating enemy ships. The Doctor emerged into a blanket of fog; mornings were often hazy in the hollows between the foothills. He could sense a flock of burden-cattle not too far away—their sweet and musky scent, their quiet snorting and occasional lowing. He locked the door of the TARDIS and dropped the key in the breast pocket of his uniform.

Through the fog, The Doctor could barely make out the shape of the farmhouse a few hundred yards away. Except for the occasional snuffles and chattering from nearby animals, all was quiet. With all comm-systems shut down or commandeered for official use, he had not seen or talked to his family for nearly a month. He half ran, half walked toward the house, anxious to kiss his wife’s beautiful neck, feel the weight of the twins in the crook of each arm, hear his daughter scold him for his lateness. As he drew closer, his pace quickened even more. The house materialized in the mist, its corners and edges sharper, its color more vivid the closer The Doctor got.

Nearly there, now, he couldn’t help himself: ”Hello!” he shouted. “I’m here!”

He nearly tripped over a toy—a primitive space shuttle like the ones used on Earth—but caught himself and ran on. Vaguely, he wondered if they could still be asleep at this hour, but that wasn’t the habit of his children. Had they gone into town in search of provisions or news?

“It’s me!” he shouted, “I’ve come to take you out of here!”

Just a few yards from the front door, he quit running, stopped short. He was panting. He looked back toward where he had left the TARDIS, now invisible through the fog.

Louder now, and sharper. “Hello?!”

Several firm strides and he was at the door. He banged on it with the side of his fist—BAMBAMBAM-- reaching for the latch with his other hand. It wasn’t locked and swung open readily. He called his wife’s name.

“Elly?”

Silence.

He stepped into the central foyer. His breathing was quieting now.

“Elly!”

Leaning into the front parlor, he found it neat as a pin. Same in the dining room. If they’d had breakfast at the big farmhouse table, the dishes had all been cleared away, the chairs pushed in, every crumb swept.

There was a small tent of cream-coloured paper in the middle of the table. The Doctor stepped fully into the room and saw his name etched across the front of it in his wife’s delicate hand. He picked it up, unfolded it, felt his hearts tighten uncomfortably in his chest.

It was so damn quiet.

There were five glyphs arranged on the page.

 “My Hero.” Her pet name for him, but there was a hollowness in it.

“We are done for. The enemy descends. I cannot wait for you.” It was a tragic tangle, plainly stated yet full of despair.

“I’ve done what I can to save the children from fear and pain.”

 “I will love you always. . .always. . .” This, indicating an endless echo.

And the last, full of regret and longing that he could feel even as he read it.

“If only you had come sooner.”

The note fluttered from his shaking hands. Even before the paper touched the floor, the Doctor was racing through the house—the kitchen, his father-in-law’s study, the shrine, then up the spiraling stairs to the bedrooms. He ran first to the little room where his daughter slept; it was empty, the bed neatly made, her little shoes lined up in pairs at its foot, a children’s book about how machinery works on the nighttable.

Similarly, the twins’ room was empty, tidy, silent.

The room at the back of the house was where he and his wife had slept during a visit in their early years of marriage. Dread gnawed into the Doctor’s hearts as he steeled himself and approached the door, which hung half-closed. His jaw clenched. He drew in a breath, closed his eyes for a moment, then pushed the door open.

They could have been asleep.

“Oh, no! No!”

His daughter’s golden hair was spread out on the pillow; her lips were parted. He expected to see a glow of perspiration on her forehead, near her hairline, but there was none.

The Doctor’s knees buckled; he crumpled. He scraped the skin of his hand on some protrusion of the door lock as he went down, grasping.

The twins lay on either side of their sister, all three of them with the blankets tucked up across their chests. His sons’ hands were softly curled, their tiny arms flung up beside their heads.

“What have you _done_?!” the Doctor wailed. He struggled to his feet, stumbled to the bed, lay his face beside theirs, feeling for breath he knew would not come. Their lips were pale. He tried to gather them up into his arms but they were so heavy and there were more of them than he could manage in one embrace. He lay down among them, inhaled deeply the soapy, salt-and-honey, outdoors smell of them. He pressed his face into the pillows.

He screamed.

****                     ****                     ****                     ****                     ****

Death shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said, “You can’t see your children. But if it makes you feel better—“

“It doesn’t,” the Doctor interrupted, monotone.

“No. . .” she replied, “I imagine not.”  Her voice was full of compassion, but matter-of-fact. She took a different tack. “It’s almost as if your Gallifrey goes on, in my realm. So many arrived so suddenly. . .but once they got past the initial shock, most of them have just carried on. Because they still have their families and friends with them. It’s an unusual situation,” she concluded, “But it seems to be working.”

The Doctor’s face flickered through a series of tormented expressions: anguished, furious, desolate, lost.

“I didn’t mean for—“ he began. “I couldn’t—“

Death only looked placidly at him, listening.

“I’m just one man. It was the only way I could think  to end it.” He paused, looking expectant and pained. “I saved. . .”

He shook his head.

Death rested her chin in her palm. “One thing you should know, Doctor, is that even if you meet the Elegian again, no matter what you say, or what you hear, it won’t change anything.”

The Doctor swallowed a lump in his throat. “I have to know why,” he said.

Death nodded.

Momentarily, she raised her eyes to look beyond the Doctor’s shoulder. He turned his head, following her gaze.

The Elegian was thinner than when he’d last seen her. Her hair was cut short and blunt, exposing her throat. She wore the mark of a mother-without-children,  where her cheek met her jaw. She came nearer, her eyes downcast, hands twisting around each other rhythmically, frantically. She was still his bright star; he longed to wrap his arms around her. She’d killed his children; he wanted to smash her in the face.

At last the Elegian stood before him, but did not meet his gaze. The Doctor made a motion as if to touch her, but withdrew, unsure of himself.

After a long moment, the Doctor spoke, his tone tightly controlled. “Elly. . .” he began. All he could think to say next was, “ _Why?_ ”

Her eyes glistened, her lip quivered. “In the night, the screeching. . .those things in the sky. . .” She shuddered.

“I told you to wait for me,” the Doctor moaned. His arms hung by his sides but his fists slowly clenched and unclenched.

She seemed not to hear him. “And when the comm-system was shut down, and we didn’t hear from you,” she began, but didn’t finish. Instead she said, “We heard rumours. Cities were on fire. And those things—those. . .Daleks.”  She pressed her knuckles to her lip. “We were done for. Gallifrey was falling.”

The Doctor’s voice was plaintive. “How could you think I wouldn’t come for you? You promised to wait for me. All you had to do was wait.”

The Elegian’s expression was tormented, her voice edging toward frantic. “They cried all night. They called for you. They wanted to know when you would come, why hadn’t you come? Every night we huddled together in bed and they just cried and cried, and those things in the sky screamed threats at us—“

The Doctor pressed his palms to his ears.

“Don’t tell me this,” he murmured.

“They cried for you. . .and what could I tell them?”

Raging now, the Doctor rushed the Elegian, grabbed her hard by the arm and shook her. “You should have told them I was coming for them! I was coming for all of you!” He face was red, veins in his temples standing out, his jaw set.

He wailed then, grief rushing out of him like the crash of a wave,  “Why didn’t you wait?”

She cowered but didn’t cry, didn’t try to shake loose of his grasp. Plaintively, almost childishly, she asked, “You were my hero. . .why didn’t you come for us?”

He roared, “I did come for you!” He shoved her, and she stumbled, falling to her knees. For the first time, she raised her eyes to meet his gaze.

She guided a loose curl behind her ear with long, graceful fingers. In a voice at once wistful and matter-of-fact, she only said, “Too late. . .”

The Doctor turned on his heel, face to face with Death of the Endless.

“Justice,” he demanded, pointing at his wife, still collapsed on the ground from when he’d shoved her. “She stole my children and I want retribution. I deserve it.”

Death--eyes still full of compassion, gently smiling,--replied, “Each makes a Hell of her own.”

“What’s hers?” the Doctor demanded. Turning to the Elegian, he shouted, “Tell me about your Hell.”

The Elegian shook her head, refused to look up at him. She started to gather herself to stand.

The Doctor strode toward her, his body tensed as if to attack her. He was raving; spittle flew from his mouth as he shouted, “You should spend eternity in the Howling listening to our children— _my_ children!-- crying, calling for you, calling your name.”

He grabbed her by the jaw and turned her face to see the tattoo she wore, marking her out as a mother whose children had died. “You don’t deserve this,” the Doctor raged. “This is for bereavement. So others will offer you sympathy. Sympathy is the last thing you should get.” He rubbed the mark roughly with his thumb, as if to wipe it away. “The fairest punishment is that you should spend longer than forever with the voices of your children in your ears, weeping for you.”

He dropped his hands back to his sides. The Elegian drew her arms around herself, looked momentarily toward the sky, then down again.

“I hear them calling for you,” she said. “They only cried for you.” She looked him in the eyes again, and said evenly, “You didn’t come.”

The Elegian turned away from him and began to walk back the way she had come, vanishing into a fog scented with longing-for-loves.

The Doctor’s face flashed fury, then crumpled once more into grief. He rubbed his hands over his close-shorn hair, moved as if to follow her, then let out a moan that seemed to rise from the very core of him.

He ran. His knees buckled, and he stumbled, but still, the Doctor ran.

He ran away from the knowledge that he’d destroyed not just a world, but two races of beings; from the accusing words of his now-dead wife; and from the sound—distant, in the back of his mind—of his children crying for him, nearly drowned out by his own heaving breath, the rush of blood in his ears. The Doctor ran away from the idea that all of it was his fault. He ran from the possibility that it could have turned out any other way.

He was still yards from the TARDIS when he reached into the breast pocket of his uniform—hateful thing, he was no soldier, he would strip it off and burn it—and fished out the key. With desperation and relief, he slid the key in the lock, thrust the door open, and threw himself inside.

Within seconds, the Doctor was pulling levers and slapping buttons and the TARDIS came humming to life.  He stood before the controls, feet planted, jaw set. He closed his eyes and knew he was utterly alone.

“Take me away,” he whispered. “Take me anywhere.” He sank to the floor, grateful to feel the ship’s solid form beneath him and against his back.

“Take me away.”

 

THE END

 


End file.
